As I rose from the bowels of Barcelona at the Passeig de Gràcia metro station, the otherworldly façade of Antoni Gaudí’s Casa Batlló came into view. My tired eyes snapped open and I gasped sharply for air.
The only word my mouth seemed able to form was an ever-eloquent “Wooooooow,” followed by a short burst of elated laughter that bordered on deranged.
Having dreamt of Barcelona since my teenage years, I was well-familiar with Antoni Gaudí and his fantastical, whimsical architecture, but never did I imagine that it would be my very first sight upon arrival in the city.
At that moment, it finally hit me–I was really there, finally fulfilling the dream I’d been dreaming for more than a decade.
The local time was nearing 12:30 am as I stepped into the streetlight. The city was buzzing with life at that hour, and suddenly the fear that often accompanies the first foray into a new city was nowhere to be found. I knew I was just a few blocks from my hostel, and despite having just traveled for 24 hours straight, I felt no urgency to get there.
I drank in my first few minutes with Barcelona, slowly, carefully; my weariness tempered momentarily with the thrill of my new destination. I ambled across the street in the direction of Casa Batlló. I took my time passing by, stopping to crane my neck upward toward the illuminated façade.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Barcelona had already begun working its magic on me.
Some call me a romantic, and I wouldn’t be quick to disagree. I fall in love with cities, with people, with ideas, often faster than you can say “Be careful…”
But, just as I would never avoid a relationship or a new idea on the premise that it could fail, I would never stay away from Barcelona simply because I knew that one day I would have to say goodbye.
And so, there I stood, gazing up at a building that seemed to be magic incarnate, beginning to feel at home in a city I had only just met.
In the weeks that followed, a number of obstacles seemed determined to keep me from experiencing Barcelona the way that I had hoped; or, at least, in the way that I was certain would make me fall deeply in love.
My first several days were spent mostly in bed as my body struggled to adjust to my new time zone and recover from the severe lack of sleep I had subjected it to during my journey.
I felt powerless as day after day I slept through the walking tours offered by the hostel, and even more powerless still when evening arrived and I found myself just as tired as if I had been out sightseeing for hours on end when in reality I’d done little more than wander to the nearest coffee shop and back.
In those first torturous days of resetting my internal clock, I did what little I could to experience Barcelona in spite of my fatigue. I devoured the local fare of montaditos and tapas and churros dipped in thick, creamy chocolate.
One particularly ambitious afternoon, I roamed the narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter and the beaches of Barceloneta with camera in hand. Everywhere I went, my chin pointed firmly toward the sky as I took in the eclectic mix of architectural styles that give Barcelona its unmistakable air of elegance.
This would prove to be more than sufficient to nurture the seed of affection that had been planted in my heart that first fateful night, but at the time my efforts felt contrived; these experiences seemed painfully superficial and I worried I was somehow missing the true essence of Barcelona.
My final day in the city before heading up the coast to Lloret de Mar, my jet lag finally began to subside; I made one final push to explore Gaudí’s world famous park, Park Güell.
As the sun began to fade and illuminate the cloudy sky with tawny yellows and muted oranges and the selfie stick wielding tourists began to dissipate, I enjoyed my first unspoiled moment of peace in five days.
The flowing curves and shimmering, shattered tile work surrounding me were unlike anything I’d seen before. My mood began to soften and my brow unfurrowed, and all at once I felt my worries and insecurities melt away.
In retrospect, I wonder if this was perhaps the idea behind Gaudí’s design—to transport those experiencing it to a place of quixotic imagination, to a place of peace and contemplation. That evening certainly felt like a dream.
The following day I left for Costa Brava where I would attend the TBEX conference, experience camping the Catalonian way, and visit small cities and towns that would temporarily take my mind off of the burgeoning love affair I’d left behind.
When I finally returned to Barcelona, an unexpected calmness enveloped me. Though the full week I had in front of me hardly seemed adequate, I never felt rushed. And it’s a good thing, too–once again, my body revolted against my poor treatment of it and a nasty sinus infection kept me bed-bound for several more days.
Before I’d even fully recovered, I was back to exploring, eager to soak up as much of the city as possible. My final weekend would lead me once again to the works of Antoni Gaudí.
I stumbled unintentionally upon La Pedrera one lazy afternoon, and the following day visited (this time very intentionally) his perhaps most famous project, the ever-unfinished church, La Sagrada Familia.
The latter would prove to be my most moving experience in Barcelona. La Sagrada Familia is a masterpiece that cannot be appreciated through photos alone; to experience its magnitude and grandeur in person was worth every cent, every sleepless, jet-lagged night, every irresponsible misstep I took that delivered me to that moment.
Peering up at those magnificent spires that day, I felt my heart swell—with respect for Antoni Gaudí, with gratitude for a life of travel, with love for the city of Barcelona.
The obstacles I was so sure would keep me from falling in love had proven utterly inconsequential.
In the end, all it really took to fall in love with Barcelona was simply to be. My experience could have unfolded in any number of ways, but I’m quite certain the outcome would have always been the same.
What does it take to make you fall in love with a new city?
